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By KOBEKT J. BUEDETTE. 

CMmes from a Jester's Bells. 

A delightful volume coataining nineteen humorous stories illus- 
trated with twenty-one full page pictures. Price, $1.25 postpaid. 

Bt Bill Nye. 
A Guest at the Ludlow. 
Twenty-eight of this famous humorist's best and most finished 
stories, with many illustrations. Price, $1.25 postpaid. 




SMI I PS PICTURES BY 

YOKED WITH ^'^^ ^^^ * ^^ 
SIGHS S 



SJ 



BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE 







SS^ PUBLISHERS ^i^,' 



H«i> O£>r>oo*^^^^«o^^o 



IWO 1 

of. 



Lllnmry of Congress 

Two Copiis Received 
'./4l900 

sEco/^D copy. 

DeKv»r«d t» 

ORDLBmVISiON, 

JUL 19 1900 



TWO COPIES RECEIVED, 

Library of Coiijret% 
Office of tli9 

APR 16 1900 

Register of Copyrlghfi^ 



T^ 






0^ 



65299 

COPYRIGHT 1900 

BY 

ROBERT J. BURDETTE 




IV 



TO MY WIFE 
CLARA 

HER VOICE LIVES IIS" AIY \VOKI>!S 
HER HAjVI> moves I:X MY' WORK 
HER HEART THROBS I>r MV THOUOHT 





CONTENTS 



After the Battle 102 

All Things to All Men 93 

Aquarius 75 

Archaeological Congress, An i 

Babj Mine 3^ 

Brakeman's Sweetheart, The 83 

Bravest of the Brave 156 

Cataracket, A 116 

Comet, The 8 

Consequences i7 

Countermarch, The • 62 

Cricket, The 107 

Day We Do Not Celebrate, The 96 

Dogmatic Philosophy m 
vii 



Contents 



Don't Fret 
Evening 

Festina Lente 

Finis 

Funny Old Clown, The 

Getting Even 

Glorj'in the Northwest 

Hod -Fellow, The 

In Medio Tutissimus Ibis 

Inside Track, The 

In Time of Peace 

James Whitcomb Rilev 

Lines to a Mule 

Main Hatch, The 

March 

Margins 

Master Sleeps, The 

May Day 

Mendicant, The 

Morning 

My First Cigar 

Odd I See, The 

Old Wine in New Bottles 

On the Coast of Man 

Orphan Born 

Pierian Spring, The 

Plaint of Jonah, The 

Postmaster, The 

Private's Glorv, The 



171 
85 
67 

178 
6 

77 
II 

53 
98 

33 
130 

173 

119 

109 

126 

40 

23 

^33 

65 

56 

30 

159 

147 

166 

113 
123 
15 
100 
169 



Contents 



Pulmonic Passion 

Putting His Armor On 

Putty Man, The 

Realization 

Rime of the Ancient Miller 

Running the Weeklj' 

School Ma'am, The 

School "Takes Up" 

Seedsman, The 

Sic Transit 

Sisyphus 

Soldier, Rest! 

Songs Without Words 

Spell of Rhyme, A 

Tramp, The 

Trolley La La! 

Two Rag Men 

Utopia 

What Lack We Yet? 



44 
162 

27 

135 

18 

42 

59 

128 

154 
150 
25 
38 
80 
48 

n 
70 

13 
91 




IX 




An Archaeological Congress 



\\ 'J i ^^ ^'^HERE'S none can tell about my birth 

m as old as the big round earth ; 
Ye young Immortals clear the track, 
^ I'm the bearded Joke on the Carpet tack." 



Thus spoke \ ^' \^0^ 

A Joke 

With boastful croak; 

And as he said, 

Upon his head // 

He stood, and waited for the tread '///'/ 




An Archaeological Congress 

Of thoughtless wight, 

Who, in the night, 

Gets up, arrayed in garments white, 

And indiscreet, 

With unshod feet, 

Prowls round for something good to eat. 

But other Jokes 
His speech provokes; 
And old, and bald, and lame, and gray. 
With loftiest scorn they say him Nay; 
And bid him hold his unweaned tongue, 
For they were blind ere he was young. 
So hot 
They grew, 
This complot 
Crew, 

They laid a plan 
To catch a Man; 
That all the clan 
Might then trepan 

His skull with Jokes; they thus began: 
2 






An Archaeological Congress 



First Mule, his heel its skill to try, 
Amid his ribs like lightning laid — 

And back recoiled — he well knew why ; 
''Insurance Man," he faintly sayed. 

Next Stove Pipe rushed, as hot as fire, 
'Tut up!" he cried, in accents bold; 
J,\With Elbow joint he struck the lyre. 

And knocked the Weather Prophet cold 



But thou, Ice Cream, with hair so gray, 

Three thousand years before the Flood, 
Cold, bitter cold, will be the day 

Thou dost not warm the Jester's blood, 
"Spoons for the spooney," was her ancient 

song. 
That with slow measure dragged its deathless 
length along. 



And longer had she sung, but with a frown, 

Old Pie, impatient, rose 
And roared, " Behold, I am the Funny Clown ! 

And without me there is no Joke that goes. 
3 






An Archaeological Congress 

To every Jester in the land, 
I lend my omnipresent hand ; 
I've filled in Jokes of every grade 
Since ever Jokes and Pies were made ; 
Sewed, pegged and pasted, glued or cast 
If not the first of Jokes, I'll be the last." 




With heart unripe and mottled hide, 
Pale summer watermeloncholly sighed, 
And — but the Muse would find it vain 
To give a list of all the train ; 
The hairless, purblind, toothless crew, 
That burst on Man's astonished view — 
The Bull dog and the Garden gate ; 
The Girl's Papa in wrathful state; 
Ma'ma in law; the Leathern Clam ; 
The Woodshed Cat; the Rampant Ram 
The Fly, the Goat, the Skating Rink, 
The Paste-brush plunging in the Ink ; 
The Baby wailing in the Dark ; 
The Songs they sang upon the Ark; 




An Archaeological Congress 

Things that were old when Earth was new, 
And as they lived still old and older grew, 
And as these Jokes about him cried, 
And all their Ancient Arts upon him tried, 
Their hapless victim, Man, lay down and died, 








r'iy p: 



// 








The Funny Old Clown 



DEAR Century Plant, I love thy bismuthed 
face, 
Thy peaked hat, thy grotesque painted smiles. 
Thy hoary jokes that with an antique grace 
Make plaintive music for thy antic wiles ; 
I love thy squalling songs, roared out of tune, 

Thy bearded, old conundrums bald and blind — 
The mellow beauty of the afternoon 

That years untold through all thy wit hath 

shined. 

6 




The Funny Old Clown 

Friend of my childhood, thou art never old; 

No heart hath he who says thy wit is stale ; 
Warm is the soul that loves the jest thrice told, 

And dear the friend who loves the twice-told 
tale. 
What though the title page tells all the rest? 

Must all our mirth be shiny with veneer? 
Are not the oldest songs of all the best? 

The oldest friends of all dear friends most 
dear? 



What then? The little ones are pleased with 
thee. 
And in their childish plaudits, sweet and clear, 
The old, dead laughter of my boyish glee, ' 
Once more called back to life, again I hear. 
I laugh, with echoes of old laughter blent, 
To think how new and bright thy jokes were 
then, 
So, every year, I seek the circus tent 



And shout to hear thy ''Here we are again ! 




^ 
















The Comet 

ERCY love us ! 
Far above us 
See the comet sloshin' round. 
Fifty million 
Billion trillion 
Thousand miles above the ground 





With a tail 




Like a whale, 


"' ^^^ 


See it scoot and whiz and rare ! 




With its flipper 
In the '^Dipper," 




How it riles the Major "Bear" ! 


8 



The Comet 

Now it's try in' 

For O'Ryan, 
Irish chap that killed the bull 

And the moon 

Pretty soon 
Gives the comet's tail a pull. 





Here and there, 

Everywhere, 
Restless sprite of sky idees. 

Awful pert, 

See it flirt 
With the seven Pleiades. 



Unbeliever, 

Famine, fever, 
Pestilence and plague and war, 

Fret and worry , 

Trouble, hurry — 
That is what a comet's for ! 




The Comet 

Lots of debt, 

Too much wet, 
Rain and hail and sleet and flood ; 

Burning drouth, 

Torrid south, 
Sun baked fields and seas of mud ! 



Blood and bones, 
Tears and groans. 

Gnashing teeth and horrid cries 
Howls and yowls. 
Frowns and scowls, 

That's about the comet's size. 



It will bring 

Everything 
That is bad beneath the sun. 

How it hums ! 

Here it comes ! 
Goodness gracious, let us run! 








lo 











Glory in the Northwest 



FROM Shediac the Canadian 
Marched out to look for the half-breed man ; 
And ere the month of May was gone 
He roped him up in Saskatchewan. 



From Shubenacodie and Memrancook 
His weary way the volunteer took ; 
From Passakeag and Bartibogue, 
He marched away to corral the rogue. 
II 




Glory in the Northwest 

From MagLiadavie and Stewiacke, 
Assametaquaghan and Peticodiac ; 
From Rusiagonish and Ste. Flavie - 
Nauigewauk and Apohagui. 

From several places that I can't spell, 
And some that I can't pronounce as well, 
They chased the half-breed over the plains 
And knocked him out with their easiest names. 




12 




Utopia 



A \ THAT will we do when the good days come^ 
^ ' When the croaking prophet's lips are 
dumb? 
When the man who reads us his "little things " 
Has lost his voice with the dole it brings ; 
When stilled is the breath of the whistling man, 
And the yells of the campaign marching clan ; 
When the neighbors' children have lost their 

drums — 
Oh, what will we do when the good time comes? 





Utopia 



Oh, what will we do in that good, blithe time 
When the tramp will work — oh, thought sub- 
lime ! 
When the scornful dame with the wear}^ feet 
Will "thank you, sir," for the proffered seat; 
When the man you hire to work by the day 
Will let }'ou do his work }^our way ; 
When the office boy will call you "Sir," 
Instead of "Soy," and "Governer; " 
When the funny man is humorsome — 
Oh, how can we stand the Millenium? 





The Plaint of Jonah 



WHY should I live, when every day 
The wicked prospers in his way, 
? And daily adds unto his hoard. 



While cut worms smite the good man's gourd? 



When I would rest beneath its shade 
Comes the shrill-voiced book-selling maid. 
And smites me with her tireless breath — 
Then am I angry unto death. ^f;;^^, 





The Plaint of Jonah 



When I would slumber in my booth, 
Who comes with accents loud and smooth 
And talks from dawn to midnight late ? 
The honest labor candidate. 





Who pounds mine ear with noisy talk, 
Whose brazen gall no ire can balk 
And wearies me of life's short span? 
The accident insurance man 



^V 



And when, all other torments fiown, 
I think to call one hour mine own, 
Who takes my leisure by the throat? 
The villain taking up a vote. 




i6 








Consequences 



A ^ /^HEN James came up one Sunday night 

' ^ Aglow with love's soft flames, 
He sought the sofa where she sat, 
"So fa, so good," said James. 



A year thrice told has come and gone 
With joys and hopes and bother; 

There stands a crib where the sofa did, — 
Says James, "A little father," 
17 





''4 

9 

w 




^v^<( <--."/< .-v/^, 



Running the Weekly 



TX the twilight in his sanctum sat the editor 

■■■ alone. 

And his might}' brain was throbbing in a \-er\' 

loft}' tone ; 

But he checked a deathless poem, that was 
fraught with fancies dim, 

And he thought of Quill, his "e. c," and con- 
trived a pit for him. 
i8 



B'L'-S 



■Bills 

PAID. 




Running the Weekly 



Then he stopped right in a leader on the Euro- 
pean war, 

While he wrote a puff for Barleycorn's new, 
family grocery store ; 

And just as he got started on the "Outlook of 
Today," 

The foreman came to say the "comps." had 
struck for higher pay. 



Then he started on a funny sketch, a fancy bright ft^i 

and glad, ^t/^^'T^ 

When Slabs, the undertaker, came to order out WM 

his ''ad."; ^■'' 

He smiled and wrote the title, "The Reflections 

of a Sage," 
When the panting "devil" broke in with — 

"They've pied the second page! " v 

He sighed, and took his scissors when the ever 

funny bore 
Said, "Ah, writing editoria — " then he weltered 





in his gore. 



19 



'^^m^^r 






K;tv ^ 



Running the Weekly 

And as the scribe was feehng happ}', writing up f% 

the fra}'. 
His landlord came to know if he "could pay his 

rent today." 





In deep abstraction then he plunged the paste 

brush in the ink, 
And stammered, "Thank you, since }'0u will — 

insist on it, I think — " 
When from the business ofhce came the cashier, 

"Here's a mess ! 
Composish & Roller's put a big attachment on 

the press." 



Then broke the editorial heart; he sobbed, and 

and said "Good-bye! " 
And forth he went, to some far land, from all 

his woes to fl}'. 
But ere the second mile was flown he sank in 

wild despair — 
The Wabash line took up his pass and made 

him pa\' his fare. 

20 





Pulmonic Passion 

)RESS me closer, all mine own — 

Warms my heart for thee alone; 
Each caress my longing fills, 
Every sense responsive thrills ; 
'Neath thy touch I live, thy slave. 
Rest the only boon I crave ; 
Thou dost reign upon my breast, 
With thine own fierce ardor blest ; 
Closer still, for thou art mine; 
Burns my heart, for I am thine ! 
21 



P 



t^ 



^ 
f^€ 



Pulmonic Passion 

Thou the message, I the wire, 
Thou the furnace, I the fire! 
I the servant, thou the master- 



Roaring, 



Red Hot. 



Mustard 



Plaster ! 




22 




The 'Master Sleeps 



THE breath of June with faint perfume 
Comes steahng through the open door 
And restless shadows in the room 

Play with the sunbeams on the floor. 
The buzzing voices croon and drone 

Or laugh aloud in willful way — 
The old schoolmaster on his throne 

Sleeps soundly on this sweet June day. 
23 




The Master Sleeps 



Away from noisy schools his dreams 

Have borne him back through paths of light 

By dimpling mead and rippling streams 

_ To childhood's home and morning bright. 

Softly he sleeps, schoolmaster wise, 
With one mild eye just on the crack, 

So young Rob Mclntyre he spies 

And gars the dust fl)' from his back. 






\^ 





^4t ^l.-U^ 




Soldier, Rest ! 



A RUSSIAN sailed over the blue Black Sea, 
^*^ Just when the war was growing hot, 
And he shouted, "I'm Tjalikavakeree- 
Karindabrolikanavandorot- 
Schipkadirova- 
Ivandiszstova- 
Sanilik- 



Danilik- 
Varagobhot ! 
25 



ai 



V 



Soldier, Rest ! 



A Turk was standing upon the shore 

Right where the terrible Russian crossed ; 
And he cried, "Bismillah!" I'm Abd el Kor 
Bazaroukilgonautoskobrosk- 
Getzinpravadi- 
Kilgekosladji- 
Grivido- 
Blivido- 
Jenikodosk !" 

So they stood like brave men, long and well, 

And they called each other their proper names, 
Till the lock-jaw seized them, and where they fell 
They buried them both b}' the Irdosholames- 
Kalatalustchuk- 
Mischaribustchup- 
Bulgari- 
Dulgari- 
Sagharimainz. 






Realization 



'N" 



EATH summer's sun and winter's blast 
While the long years swept slowly past, 
I waited, looking out to sea, 
For sure my ship would come to me. 



At last ! For with this morning sun 
My glad heart heard her signal gun ! 
And safe into the sheltering bay 
I saw my ship come in to-day. 

27 




Realization 



^ 



And then I learned that she had been 
Eleven weeks in quarantine, 
While yellow fever sank the crew 
Deep in its complementary blue. 



^^ 



r^ 



^ ^ 



And long before, while tempest tossed, ^^^ j2S 
Her masts and rigging had been lost, 
And then the crew, a frightened horde. 
Had flung the cargo overboard. 

And then a steamer of the line 
Laid hold upon this ship of mine ^ 

And towed her through the waters wild, ^''^' 

And fearful claims for salvage filed. 5^"^ 




Then next I learned the companee 
Which had insured my ship for me 
Had gone up, higher than a kite — 
Over the stars — clear out of sight ! 



28 





Realization 

So once again I sit all day 
Down where the restless breakers play, 
And wish — though all the good it does- 
My ship had stayed out where it was. 

And when the evening, gray and dim, 
Falls on the ocean's misty brim. 
With throbbing heart and quivering Hp, 
I wish I'd never had no ship. 








My First Cigar 



^'T^WAS just behind the woodshed 

^ One glorious sumiper day, 
Far o'er the hills the sinking sun 

Pursued his westward way; 
And in my safe seclusion 

Removed from all the jar 
And din of earth's confusion 

I smoked my first cigar. 
30 




My First Cigar 



It was my first cigar ! 
It was the worst cigar ! 
Raw, green and dank, hide-bound and rank 
It was my first cigar ! 



Ah, bright the boyish fancies 

Wrapped in the smoke-wreaths blue ; 
My eyes grew dim, my head was light, 

The woodshed round me flew ! 
Dark night closed in around me — 

Black night, without a star — 
Grim death methought had found me 

And spoiled my first cigar. 

It was my first cigar ! 
A six-for-five cigar ! 
No viler torch the air could scorch — 
It was my first cigar ! 

All pallid was my beaded brow, 

The reeling night was late, 
My startled mother cried in fear, 

"My child, what have you ate?" 
31 




My First Cigar 

I heard my father's smothered laugh, 
It seemed so strange and far, 

I knew he knew I knew he knew 
I'd smoked my first cigar ! 



It was my first cigar ! 
A give-away cigar ! 
I could not die — I knew not why — 
It was my first cigar ! 

Since then I've stood in reckless ways, 

I've dared what men can dare, 
I've mocked at danger, walked with deatli, 

I've laughed at pain and care. 
I do not dread what may befall 

'Neath my malignant star, 
No frowning fate again can make 

Me smoke my first cigar. 



I've smoked my first cigar! 
My first and worst cigar ! 
Fate has no terrors for the man 
Who's smoked his first cigar! 






The Inside Track 



IT E came to the bower of her I love 

-■■ ■■■ Twanging his light guitar; 

He called her in song his snow white dove, 

His lily, his fair, bright star, 
While I sat by the side of the brown-eyed maid 
And helped her enjoy her serenade. 
33 



The Inside Track 

He sang that his love was beyond compare — 
(His voice was sweet as his song) ; 

He said she was pure, and gentle, and fair, 
And I told her he wasn't far wrong. 

I don't know whether he heard me or not. 

For his E string snapped like a pistol shot. 

He told how he loved her, o'er and o'er, 

With passion in every word, 
In songs that I never knew before — 

And sweeter ones ne'er were heard. 
But the night dews loosened his tenor strings 
And they buzzed out of tune like crazy things. 

He sang and he played till the moon was high, 
(Oh, sweet was the love-born strain!) 

While the night caught, up each tremulous sigh 
And echoed the sweet refrain. 

But I laughed when a beetle flew down his throat 

And choked in a sneeze his highest note. 




34 



The Inside Track 



She liked it; and I did — just so-so; 

I was glad to hear his lay ; 
I sometimes echoed him, soft and low, 

When he sang what I wanted to say ; 
Till at last I leaned from the window and then 
I thanked him, and asked him to call again. 
And then he went away. 





Baby Mine 

THERE is no joy in the world like you, 
Xo music sweet as your "goo-ah-goo," 
No skies so soft as your eyes of blue — 

Baby, oh my baby ! 
But when you ground on the hidden pin, 
And open your valve and howl like sin, 
No gong can equal }'Our little din, 
Baby, oh my baby! 

36 




Baby Mine 

My heart is glad when your face I see, 
My joy is full when you come to me, 
I laugh with you in romping glee, 

Baby, oh my baby ! 
But oftentimes my midnight snore 
Is broken short by your startling roar, 
And till morning dawns we walk the floor- 
Baby, oh my baby ! 




I i 




37 




Songs Without Words 

T CAN not sing the old songs, 
■■• Though well I know the tune, 
Familiar as a cradle song 

With sleep-compelling croon ; 
Yet though I'm filled with music 

As choirs of summer birds, 
" I can not sing the old songs" — 

I do not know the words. 



^v 



Songs Without Words 

I start on "Hail Columbia," 

And get to "heav'n-born band," 
And there I strike an up-grade 

With neither steam nor sand ; 
' ' Star Spangled Banner' ' downs me 

Right in my wildest screaming, 
I start all right, but dumbly come 

To voiceless wreck at "streaming.' 

So, when I sing the old songs, 

Don't murmur or complain 
If "Ti, diddy ah da, tum dum," 

Should fill the sweetest strain. 
I love "Tolly um dum di do," 

And the "trilla-la yeep da"-birds, 
But "I can not sing the old songs "- 

I do not know the words. 



^^ ^^^^i^^^ 



39 




Margins 

]\ /I Y dreams so fair that used to be, 

^ ' ^ The promises of youth's bright dime. 

So changed, alas; come back to me 

Sweet memories of that hopeful time 
Before I learned, with doubt oppressed, 
There are no birds in next year's nest. 
40 




Mar; 



gins 



The seed I sowed in fragrant spring 

The summer's sun to vivify 
With his warm kisses, ripening 

To golden harvest by and by, 
Got caught by drought, Hke all the rest — 
There are no birds in next year's nest. 



The stock I bought at eighty-nine. 
Broke down next day to twenty-eight 

Some squatters jumped my silver mine, 
My own convention smashed my slate 

No more in ''futures" I'll invest — 

There are no birds in next year's nest. 





The School Ma'am 



SEE where she comes adown the lane 
With gladness in her laughing eye, 
But in her hand the rattan cane 
To stifle laughter by and by. 



Young love lurks in her merry tone, 
And nestles in her roguish looks, 

But long, hard, crooked questions moan 
And sob and gibber in her books. 

42 




The School Ma'am 

Her dimpled hand, that seeks the curl 
Coquetting with her graceful head, 

Can make a boy's ears ring and whirl 
And make him wish that he were dead. 




How much she kens, this learned rose, 
Of human will and human won't; 

One wonder is, how much she knows. 
The other is, how much I don't. 



Sweet pedagogue, much could I tell 
The merry boys who greet thy call— 

Thy mother cuffed my ears, right well. 
When she was young and I was sma 








III' 

m 




Putting His Armor On 

^^TF you're waking call me early, call me 
*^ early, mother dear," 

For I've a heap to resolute about, this glad 
New Year ; 

There's lots of things I'm going to say I'm go- 
ing to try to do, 

And I hope perhaps in a thousand things I'll 
manage to keep a few. 

44 



V 




Putting His Armor On 



I will not look upon the wine when it is rosy 
red — 

So may my evening hat sit loosely on my morn- 
ing head, 



^\(r\ 






|^W^g9 I will not whistle in the cars the airs I do not ' fizypQ^M 



know 



V 



X^ Nor hold high revel in my rooms while others ^ fyl^ ^\ 
\-^x\ B k T ■' sl^^P below. . y ^ . 

/M I will not stand with sinners at the corner of the^/ - >> \ 

/^. street; ^^ y / i} ' , 

;^^ ^^ ' I. will not talk about myself, to every one I ■ / ^ ^ / ^ 

meet; \W ' ^ 

I'll be the good boy of the school, and study /""l"^^ 

hard all day, ^ 
Nor prod my seat-mate with a pin, to see him 

laugh and play. |, i ''^ , 



When Wisdom crieth in the streets, I'll know ' 

that she means me. ^ ^v-^'^v C 



And when she putteth forth her voice, I'll an- VS)^'1(^ 



swer, "Here I be ! 
45 




Putting His Armor On 

When bigger men affront me, I will give the ! 

answer soft, 
But the little man who tries it on, may venture .^-^-^ 

r t 

once too oft. '^'^^"vl 

\ I' 
I will not lie about my age, my salary or weight; 
To help in deed the friend in need, I will not 

hesitate ; 

!i ' 

I will not o;rind — for nothing — the faces of the |, >\ 

o o 'MI 

poor, • •( 

And fractured to}-s and broken hearts I'll tr\' to 
mend and cure. 



I will not wear a dress coat when the sun is in 

the sky; 
I will not wear a collar more than seven inches 

high; 
I'll be so good and sensible that people in the 

street 
Will lift their hats to me and make obeisance 

when we meet. 



46 




Putting His Armor On 

Good-night, dear mother, sweet good-night; 
nay, do not weep for me; 

Though I'm so good to-night, you fear the 
morn I ne'er may see; 

But if I do live through it, when to-morrow dis- 
appears — 

You'll likely think your precious boy will live a 
hundred years. 




"^^ 




The Tramp 



OLOW paced, with listless step he moved 
^ along 

To where the woodbine mantled all the door, 

And strewed its restless shadows on the floor ; 
His sinewy breath, escaping in a song. 
Bore scent of Old Tom Juniper, full strong ; 

Upon both feet he limped, as travel sore. 

For alms he asked; ate them, and asked for 
more ; 

And lingered yet, the banquet to prolong, 
Whiles I felt envv of his bone and brawn 




The Tramp 

And his glad Hfe, so free from toil or care ; 
And did not know, till after he was gone 

That he had taken with him, my best pair 
Of Summer clothes, and other things, to pawn, 

And drifted idly off — we knew not where. 



Ah, would that I, like him. might come and go, 

As birds, and winds, and shadows go and 
come, 

Careless of all things sad or burdensome ; 
Living as lightly as fair lilies grow 
Beside the dreamy river's slumbrous flow; 

At morn, awakened by the hollow drum 

Of partridge in the thicket ; by the hum 
Of ever busy bees at noon tide's glow 
Lulled to my mid-day slumber in the wood ; 

Drone like, to eat the sweets by others stored, 
To live with birds and winds in brotherhood ; 

My fashion plate — the clothes-line; and my 
board — 
The farmer's care — but there! I am no good; 

I have no art ; I would get caught and scored ! 
49 




City Lyrics 



What's in all this grand life an' high situation, 
And nary pink nor hollyhawk bloomin' at the door ? 



Riley. 




51 




\. M. 






1 f i\ 






The Hod-Fellow 



/^H, bird of the avenue, strong is thy wing 
^^ As thou piercest the clouds with thy loud 

caroling; 
I follow thy flight with my hand-shaded eye — 
"Oh, where art thou going, so high and so 

high?" 

53 



The Hod-Fellow 

Thy plumage is blue as the skies in the faU, \ 

And tawny the top-knot that shines over-all ; 
Straight into the eye of the clear gleaming day, 
Right upward and onward thou soarest away. 

Say, where dost thou fly with thy head burden- 
bowed ? 

Oh, say, dost thou build thy lone nest in the 
cloud? 

With an arm full of bricks in thy three=sided hat. 

Thou wingest thy way to a ninth-story flat. 

The flights thou hast made, were they straightly 
aligned, 

Would pierce the blue ether and stick out be- 
hind ; 

Why not keep right on when the ladder you've 
trod, 

And puU it up after you, man with the hod? 



54 



The Hod-Fellow 

The sun-staring eagle has broad-sweeping wings 
To fan the light zephyr as upward he swings ; 
But he'd lower his crest in the gloom of defeat 
Should he ever, like you, try to fly with his feet. 

Oh, bird of the ladder-flight ! Lightly my muse 
Will sing the slow lift of thy high-soaring shoes ; 
Thou teachest ambition, the sure way to climb — 
Is to plod up the ladder one round at a time. 





Morning 



w 



HAT charms are thine, oh incense- 



breathing morn ! 



How blessed with dewy freshness is the hour ! 
Before the dawn I hear the milkman's horn 
Wind at m\- gate with ever-swelling power. 

The rosy-fingered hours far in the east 

Kindle the skies with flames of gold and red, 

Food for the e}^es — though for my morning feast "^^^^^ 
I much prefer a little roll in bed. 

56 







i: 



¥4 



\ 



Morning 



-' The English sparrows wrangling at my gate 

Salute the day with many a rasping squack ; 
The cartman, with slow wheels that creak and 
grate, 
Inspires his laggard steed with shout and 
whack. 

And now the baker's bell with dire alarm 

Ding-dongs and clangs ; in tones that fairly 
freeze 
The list'ner's blood; a huckster from the farm 
Yells 'neath the window — "Nice fresh rad- 
ishees ! ' ' 



With shrieks and cries of varying vehemence 
Rush down the street loud swarms of whist- 



^ 

/C^:^ 



\ 



ling boys, 
While every man in all the city dense j^^ ^, ^ ,y 

Starts up to greet the day with some new y^^ Y 
noise. 



57 




Morning 

' ' Old bot-tuls I " " Rags I ' ' come bawling up the 
street ; 
"Ould hats I ould hats I ould hats!" just 
shakes the door ; 
''Charco' " and "Tatoes"" in the tumult bleat, 
While "Morning pa-piz I " ' swells the thunder- 
ing roar. 



Oh, peaceful morn ; oh. hallowed, blessed dawn ! 

How sweet to kiss th\- dewy, scented breath ! 
How sweet to grasp a club and fall upon 

Yon shrilling boy, and maul him half to death ! 





School "Takes Up" 



THE boys have come back to school 
And me; 
And a conflict of riot and rule 

I see; 
The whispered joke, and the stealthy grin, 
The clinging wax, and the crooked pin. 
The smothered laugh, and the buzzing din — 
Ah me! 
59 




School ^' Takes Up" 

My profile chalked on the outer walls — 

Dear me ! 
And the ceiling stuccoed with paper balls 

I see; 
The shuffling feet on the gritty floor, 
The inky face at the school-room door, 
>V The vicious pinch, and the muffled roar — 
Vrr H I Ah me ! [ ( \ N^ 



U 




f^A K 



The question brisk and the answer slow — 

Ah me; 
The 'T furgit" and the 'T dun no," 

Ah me ; 
" 'N' four times seven is twenty- nine ; " 
N ' Rome is a town on the river Rhine ; ' ' 
N' George is a verb, 'n' agrees with w^ine;" 
ear me ! 






:/ 



< < ' AT ' 





60 



School ^' Takes Up" 

Grimace and giggle, grin and wink — 

Dear me ! 
Buzz, hum and whisper — who can think? 

Oh, me! 
Wouldn't it be a better rule 
To let the boy grow up a fool, 
Rather than send him back to school 

And me? 




DI 




— — ■ — .^^pv^ 




^•,! ! I 









^;.')(")^w;feiVH\\V\fi'^x 




V! 



hS^'-v7 if \S(^ ^ 



^^^^ 



The Countermarch 



T' 



*RAAIP, tramp, tramp I 

With the morning clocks at ten 
She skimmed the street with footsteps fleet, 
And jostled the timid men. 

Tramp, tramp, tramp! 
She entered the dry goods store, 
And with hurrying tread the dance she led 
All over the crowded floor. 
62 




4l 



3 





The Countermarch 



She charged the throng where the bargains were, 
And everybody made way for her ; 
Wherever she saw a "special" sign 
She made for the spot a prompt bee Hne ; 
Whatever was old, or whatever was new. 
She had it down and she looked it through. 
Whatever it was that caught her eye. 
She'd handle, and price, and pretend to buy. 
But 'twas either too bad, too common, too good. 
So she did, and she wouldn't, and didn't and 
->^ would. 

And round the counters and up the stairs. 
In attic and basement and every wheres, 
The salesmen fainted and cash boys dropped. 
But still she shopped, and shopped, and shopped, 
And shopped, and shopped, and shopped, and 

shopped ; 
And round, and round, and round, and round. 
Like a serpentine toy with a key that's wound. 
She weaved and wriggled and twisted about. 
Like a gyrating whirlwind dazed with doubt, 
This way in and the other way out, 




The Countermarch 

Till men grew giddy to see her go ! 
And by and by, when the sun was low, 
Homeward she dragged her weary way 
With a boy to carr}' the spoil of the day — 
A spool of silk and a hank of thread — 
Eight hours — ten cents — and a woman half dead 




X. 



64 




The Mendicant 



HEAR thy full-voiced note — thy flight of 



It broods beneath my casement in the night, 
And cooing, wakes me in the earl)- light, 
Whiles I would slumber on, and on, and on, 
And wonder if thou never wilt be gone. 
I hear thy warble down the echoing street 
Where other songs awake thine own to greet 
And with it blend. 
65 






n ir I 




The ^Mendicant 

Down the long pavement's human-cumbered 

waste, 
I hear thy plaintive chant; thou hast, thou 

sayst, 

' 'Wash tubs to mend ! ' ' 

Oh, child of song I m\' heart goes out to thee I 
Although I would not. I must hear thee sing 
Alike in winter sere and budding spring ; 
Far from th\' madding wail though I should flee. 
Yet, biding ni}' return, thou still wouldst be 
Singing the same old tune, the same old 

words — 
"Like the repeating minstrelsy of birds;" 
Pray thee, suspend 'em! 
In vain regrets th}' voice no longer spend, 
If it be true you have wash tubs to mend, 
Why don't }^ou mend 'em? 




66 




"-^ 



\ 



''Festina Lente" 

DLESSINGS on thee, little man. 
-*— ^ Hasten slowly as you can ; 
Loiter nimbly on your tramp 
With the ten-cent speedy stamp. 
Thou art "boss" ; the business man 
Postals writes for thee to scan ; 
And the man who writes, "With speed," 
Gets it — in his mind — indeed. 
6; 




Festina Lente'' 




Lo, the man who penned the note 
Wasted ten cents when he wrote; 
And the maid for it will wait 
At the window, b\' the gate, 
In the doorway, down the street, 
Listening for thy footsteps fleet. 
But her cheek will flush and pale, 
Till it comes next da\- b\ mail. 
With thine own indorsement neat — 
"No such number on the street." 
Oh, if words could but destroy, 
Thou wouldst perish, truthful boy' 

Oh. for boyhood s easy way 
Messenger who sleeps all day, 
Or. from rise to set of sun. 
Reads "The Terror" on the run. 
For }'our sport, the band goes b} 
For your perch, the lamp post high; 
For \'our pleasure, on the street 
Dogs are fighting, drums are beat; 








^^Festina Lente 



For your sake, the boyish fray, 
Organ grinder, run-away; 
Trucks for your con\enience are; 
For your ease, the bob-tail car; 
Every time and e\^er\' where 
You're not wanted. }Ou are there. 
Dawdling, whistling, loit'ring scamp, 
Seest thou this ten-cent stamp? 
Stay thou not for book or toy — 
Vamos ! Fly! Skedaddle, boy! 



l' 



£ 



Ih t t^)#Pj| .....it; 





6y 




Two Rag Men 



pN RIFTS away the murky night 
^^ Dawns the morning's smok}- light 
In the highway's busy hum 
Ere I see, I hear him come; 
Gutter, barrel, box he drags, 
While his matins rise — "Old rags!" 
70 




Two Rag Men 




Brother mine, thy waiHng cry 
Here I echo with a sigh; 
All thy brother has to wear 
When he fain would take the air, 
Button gone, and pin that jags, 
Ever mocks his poor "old rags." 

E'en the page whereon I write, 
Marring all its surface white. 
Pure and fair as drifting snow 
When December tempests blow — 
Whispers to the pen that drags — 
''I am nothing but old rags." 

And the wealth I hope to get 
For this intellectual sweat. 
All the crisp and verdant bills, 
Pulped and spread in paper mills, 
All the poet's hard-earned swag, 
Once was gathered in thy bag. 



71 




Two Rag Men 




Rags, the bed on which I He; 
Rags, the shirt I have (to buy) ; 
Rags, old rags, my note of hand 
(So I'm given to understand) ; 
Curses on thee, hook and bags, 
Rival gatherer of rags ! 

(Kills him with a stone ink bottle and steals 
his bag of rags, which brings at the junk shop 
more than a seven octave poem.) 





Trolley La La 



THE car he waited for came down, 
And then went thund'ring by, 
With winged feet along the street 
He sped with fearsome cry ; 
The happy boys with joyous noise 

Exclaimed "Hi, hi ! Hooray!" 
But swift and far that trolle\' car 
He chased, that summer day. 
73 






Y 



^ 



Trolley La La ! 

And other cars they came and went — 

Their gongs he heeded not ; 
His breath was gone, his strength was spent 

His frame and ire were hot; 
With panting roar he passed his door, 

And crooked, west and far. 
Into the vague Hereaftermore — 

He chased that troUev car. 




74 



\/ 




^^^^^^ ' ''* Aquarius 



---_ 'VBIC ^ 



SPRINKLE, sprinkle, water-cart, 
Oft I wonder where thou art: 



^- ^f-^ Never can I find thee nigh 



When the dust is deep and dry. 



When the sun puts on his cloud 
And the rain-pour patters loud, 
Then you wing your little flight- 
Sprinkle, sprinkle left and right. 
75 ~ ' 



m^^ 



r 



Aquarius 

When the crossings, Sunday clean, 
Full of well-dressed folk are seen, 
Vainly then they dodge and scream 
Sprinkled with thy pluvial stream ! 



And when bright my shoes are "shined," 
And my hands in gloves confined, 
Rattling down the thirst}^ street, 
How you soak my hands and feet. 

Some day. w^hen this deed is done, 
I will draw my trusty gun ; 
Then thou'lt wonder w^here thou art, 
Buckshot-sprinkled w^ater-cart ! 









Getting Even 



IF I were a railway brakeman, 
I'd call out the stations so plain 
That the passenger booked for Texas 
Would go clear through to Maine. 
Td open the door of the smoker 
And give such a mighty roar 
That the people back in the sleeper 
Would fall out on the floor. 

n 






cV Getting- Even 



For 1 couldn't afford a tenor voice 

That would murmur, and sigh, and speak 

In the soft, low tones of ^olian harps 
For eleven dollars a week. 




^x 



^ 



If I were a baggage-master 

I'd rattle the trunks about; 
I'd stand them up in the corner, 
And shake their cargoes out; 
I would pull the handles out by the roots, 

I would kick the bottoms in. 
And strew their stuffing around the car. 
And make them lank and thin. 

For I couldn't afford to wear kid gloves, 

And put pads on my feet, 
And fondle things gently, when all my pay 
Just kept me in bread and meat. 



If I were a railway conductor. 
As through the train I'd go, 

I'd have for every question asked — 
This ready reply, "Don't know 




Getting Even 

I'd miss connections for lots of men, 

I'd run lone passengers past; 
I'd tell them 'twas eight, when I knew 'twas ten, 
And declare their watches fast. 
For I couldn't afford to be civil 

When I knew every man in the load 
Would look at my watch and ring, and say : 
"He stole them things from the road." 





79 



mHJi 




:<^-~ 






Y 






A Spell of Rhyme 



ARD engine "Louisa," B. C-R. & N 






Was shifting some empties about three p.m., 
When the stoker leaned out of his window to sa}', 
"There's a cow going down the tea arr ay see 

kay." 



Pensively halted the cow on the track, 
Burs in her matted tail, bran on her back; 
Dreaming of summer, she seemed not to see 
Va^, / The on-coming )'ard ee en gee eye en ee. 

Will 



^ 



A Spell of Rhyme 








Once more spake the stoker, "Right close is 

she now ; ' ' 
"Bully," the engineer quoth, "for the cow!" 
Then reversing his engine he cried, "Shoo, oh 

shoo ! ' ' 
Said the stoker, "Oh, shoot the see oh double 

you!" 

Shrilly the whistle shrieked forth its alarm. 
And the stoker threw firewood and coal in a 

swarm ; 
But the cow never heeded, nor thought that her 

star 
Was setting at four miles an aitch oh you arr. 




The yard engine struck her about amidships. 
And her summer dreams went into total eclipse; 
It scattered her system, most shocking to see 
All over the ess tea arr double ee tea ! 




«^ 



8i 



A Spell of Rhyme 

Sadly the engineer drew in his head, 
And "pulled her wide open" as onward he sped ; 
But the stoker laughed gaily, "Old fellow, I sa}', 
There's a mighty cheap cut of ess tea ee aie 
kay ! ' ' 




82 




The Brakeman's Sweetheart 



MY love is like a parlor car, 
Perfection all her graces are ; 
Smoothly, without a frown or jar, 

She runs by smiles ; 
Would she but couple on to me, 
How happy then our lives would be 
And east or west — ah, wouldn't we 
Make sunny miles ! 
83 







y^.^0^ 



The Brakeman's Sweetheart 

Her eyes electric lamps eclipse ; 
To think of running daily trips 
With orders from her rose-bud lips- 
It makes my head-light I 
But sand and steam I seem to lack ; 
When I'd suggest a double-track. 
Her laughing eyes they set me back 
Quick as a red light. 




I know she dearly loves to tease, 
For once, when on m\- bended knees, 
I told her, with what warmth you please. 

How I adored her, — 
With gauzy, perfumed fan outspread 
She lightly tapped her lover's head. 
And bending over, softly said, 

"Shops, Joe; bad order!'" 



84 




Evening 



THE sun sinks down the distant west 
Where'er the west may be, 
Until the city building's crest 
Shuts off its light from me. 
It can not hide behind a hill 
And so it hides behind a mill. 
85 




Evening 

The whistles blow their evening tune — 
How shrill their echoes from afar ! 

How sweet to sniff the dust of June 
And rush to catch the twilight car ! 

While in its smoke, and dust, and heat, 

A fat man stands on both my feet. 



Here in the suburb, dusty, gray, 
Roar the loud mouthings of a row ; 

I feel no fear ; it is the wa}' 

My neighbor urges home his cow; 

With clubs and yells she must be led 

From gardens wrecked, where she hath fed. 



Upon the soft, domestic air. 

Faint, sensuous odors drift along — 

Coffee, potatoes, beefsteak rare. 

Fried onions, eggs, tripe and oolong; 

And, daintier tastes to lure and please, 
^,fJ^% Fried liver, ham, and castile cheese. 



86 




Evening 

Oh, blissful eve! How blest the town 1 
That swelters thus through leafy June ; W 

How blest to watch the ice melt down, # 
To serve the butter with a spoon ; 

To list the trolley's gonging chime 

And know that it is evening time. 









87 



Politics 



Let none presume 
To wear an undeserved dignity. 
O, that estates, degrees and offices 
Were not derived corruptly ; and that clear honor 
Were purchased by the merit of the wearer! 
How many then should cover, that stand bare ! 
How many be commanded, that command ! 

Merchant of Venice. 




89 




What Lack We Yet? 

WHEN Washington was president 
He was a mortal icicle; 
He never on a railroad went, 
And never rode a bicycle. 



He read by no electric lamp, 

Ne'er heard about the Yellowstone; 

He never licked a postage stamp, 
And never saw a telephone. 
91 



AVhat Lack We Yet? 

His trousers ended at his knees ; 

B}' wire he could not snatch dispatch 
He fiUed his lamp with whale-oil grease, 

And never had a match to scratch. 

But in these days it's come to pass, 
All work is with such dashing done, 

We've all these things, but then, alas — 
We seem to have no Washington ! 





All Things to All Men 



T 'VE run all the old parties over 
^ And now to a new one must go ; 
I think there are offices somewhere, 
If I'd had any kind of a show. 

Then give me some sort of a show — oh ho ! 
I'm a rather "weak sister" I know; 
But I'd run my legs off for an office, 
If I only knew which way to go. 
93 



^y^A4] 




All Thino-s to All :Men 



From now till the da}- of election, 
I'll promise all men everything; 
And it's awful to think my rejection, 

The votes, when they're counted, may bring. 
Then give me some sort of a show — oh ho ! 
Into any new party I'll go! 
For the starvingest kind of an office 
rU be anything that I know. 







Please keep your eyes open and watchful 

And when any new party you see 
That is wanting a man for an office 
Just kindly refer them to me. 

For I'm alwa}'S ready to go — you know! 
Where an office its shadow may throw ; 
I'd swim through the broad Mississippi 
For the littlest office I know. 

And if, when the election is over, 

Up Salt River I must repair, 
'My banishment wouldn't seem lonesome 

If an office could follow me there. 
94 




All Things to All Men 

So follow me up when I go — oh ho ! 
And write on my tombstone, you know- 
'If you're hunting a man for an office, 
Just wake up the fossil below!" 




95 




The Day We Do Not Celebrate 



o 



NE famous day in great July 

John Adams said, long years gone by 



"This day that makes a people free 
Shall be the people's jubilee, 

' 'With games, guns, sports, and shows displayed. 
With bells, pomp, bonfires, and parade, 

"Throughout this land, from shore to shore. 
From this time forth, forevermore. " 

The years passed on, and by and by. 
Men's hearts grew cold in hot July. 

96 




^<x^ 



i 

in 



The Day We Do Not Celebrate 

And Mayor Hawarden Cholmondely said 
"Hof rockets Hi ham sore hafraid ; 

"Hand hif you send one hup hablaze, 
■Hi'U send you hup for sixty days." 

Then said the Mayor O'Shay McQuade, 
"Thayre uz no nade fur no perade." 

And Mayor Hans Von Schwartzenmeyer 
Proclaimed, "I'll haf me no bonfier!" 

Said Mayor Baptiste Raphael 
"No make-a ring-a dat-a bell!" 

"By gar!" cried Mayor Jean Crapaud, 
"Zis July games vill has to go!" 

And Mayor Knud Christofferrssonn 

Said, "Djeath to hjjim who fjjres a gjjunn! 

At last, cried Mayor Wun Lung Lee — 
"Too muchee hoop-la boberee 1 " 

And so the Yankee holiday, 
Of proclamations passed away. 






In Medio Tutissimus Ibis 



IT ET other men wrangle and strive, 
* '— ' And struggle, and scheme, and contrive, 
For me 'tis discreeter, and meeter, and sweeter 
To sit on the fence by myself ; 
I know that the scorn of the world 
At my meaningless mean will be hurled, 
But I have no measure, or leisure, or pleasure 
To struggle for power and pelf. 
98 



%-r^ 



. i^' 



In Medio Tutissimus Ibis 

There are fellows whose greatest delight 
Is to seek for the heart of the fight 
And jostle and shoulder the older and bolder, 
And knock out the timid and slim ; 
So if I, of a peace-loving mind, 
To roost on the fence am inclined, 
Small odds if they hiss me, or kiss me, or miss 
me, 
For keeping up out of the swim. 



If ever I go to a war, 
I will go in the medical corps, 
And then while they're fighting and biting and 
smiting, 
And shedding bad language and gore, 
I'll turn from the strife I abhor. 
Both sides of the field I'll explore, 
Where the wounded are creeping, and weeping, 
and sleeping, 
Sweet balm in their hurts I will pour: 



99 



l.«fC 





The Postmaster 



LONG }-ears he dwelt behind the latticed wall, 
Built of glass boxes where he mislaid mail; 
With gentle patience answered every call, 

And licked the stamps for childhood, sweet 
and frail. 
Administrations changed with rise and fall — 

Serene he weathered every shifting gale ; 
His Ci\il Service rules were few and fit, 
And framed to catch the passing perquisite. 
lOO 



The Postmaster 

So in the service he grew old and gray, 

And oft he put the stamps on upside down ; 

Missorted letters in a strange, vague \\a.y, 

And sent Smith's paper out to Jones, b}^ 
Brown. 

Till Special Agent Death came in one day. 
And pouched the old man through to Grave- 
yard town. 

He lay quite still ; then suddenly he cried — 

"Mail closed !" and drew his salary and died. 




lOI 




After the Battle 



SPREAD straw and tan-bark on the street, 
Let not one Sabbath church bell ring; 
Put shoes of list on horses' feet, 
And muffle every nois}' thing. 
Throttle the man who lifts his voice ! 

Let every mouth be closed and dumb ; 
In secret, silent thought rejoice 

That all the world is still and numb. 

102 



After the Battle 



Oh, gracious Silence ! At thy throne 

With voiceless lips we kiss the dust; 
Thy noiseless reign with joy we own, 

And hail thy speechless judgments just ! 
For past is our Election day — 

We tell it thee with grateful tears ! 
Send us no other one, we pray, 

For eighteen hundred thousand years ! 



m 




WfA^ 




103 



Children of the Ark 



**Th' unwieldy elephant, 
To make them mirth, us'd all his might, and wreathed 
His lithe proboscis." 

Paradise Lost. 



^y 



N) .',> ^ .-. 



^"■■:|\)- 




\ 



105 




The Cricket 



1SANG the budding spring away, 
And played while summer roses bloomed, 
I danced through Autumn's splendid sway, 

And when November's shadows gloomed: 
And skies and hills, and all the woodland 
throng 
Laughed at my dancing feet and merry song, 
107 





The Cricket 



I mocked the toiling ant with scorn ; 

I sang, but wrought not, with the bee; 
I wooed the joyous birds at morn, 

Danced at the June flies' jubilee; 
Nor dreamed, or knew, or ever cared to know 
That Summer flowers would fade and Winter 
blow. 

Now Winter comes, I have no care, 

I ask no ant to give me room ; 
I sue no bee for daint}- fare, 

I laugh and sing at Winter's gloom; 
And that the Summer time I danced away 
Brings no regret to me this Winter's day. 



ENVOI. 

For this is the season, as you may conjecture, 
That is Summer for actor, and singer and 
printer ; 
So I stick up the posters — announce a New 
Lecture — 
I I I'm one of the Crickets that sing in the Win- 




■^ ft •&. AS 



^^^;^, M 





fs 



i^ n 



The Main-Hatch 



4 M 






A MINSTREL am I of a single lay, 
^^ But I sing it the whole day long, 
In the lonely coop, on the crowded way, 

I warble my simple song. 
Only an egg, with its pure white shell — 

The sea has no pearl more fair — 
And over that spheroid my cackles I tell, 
And my feat diurnal declare. 
109 



\f'^1 



^'^"^ 






% 



m 



r 














The Main-Hatch 



Oh, a frail, weak thing is my ovate gem, 

As it Ues in my straw-Hned nest ; 
But it raketh the orator, stern and stem, 

When it catcheth him on the crest. 
There is might in its weakness, for lo, when it 
goes 

Down the long afternoon of its life — 
It can easily lead a strong man by the nose, 

When it mixeth itself in the strife. 

I am no bravo ; the hawk that swoops 

Must seek for me under the thatch; 
Yet in open field or in private coop 

I always come up to the scratch. 
So my rondeau I cackle — too young to crow — 

While the Fates may permit me to speak, 
For although my son never sets, yet I know 

That my days ma}' be ended necks tweak. 




I lO 




tl 



Dogmatic Philosophy 



I' 



MY faithful dog, — his actions fairly talk — 
Gamboled about me on our morning walk, 
And being frivolous — for he was young, 
Pursued, with flying feet and clamorous tongue. 
The circling birds that skimmed along the 

ground 
And teased, with whistles shrill, the baying 
hound . 

Ill 






Dogmatic Philosophy 



He snapped at flies, slow buzzing in the air, 
And chased the chirping crickets here and there. 
At length, with sudden leap, in merry play, 
He caught a hornet, passing b\' that way, 
And let him go again, and moaned and sighed ; 
And scraped his jaws upon the earth, and cried ; 
And shouted ''Fire!" — as a dog might shout 
And ran before the wind, and put about; 
And shrieked ; and gnawed the trees ; and 

snapped and rolled ; 
Panted and shivered, as with heat and cold ; --^ / y- 
And would not frisk, nor laugh, nor bound, nor/^ 




^-^' 



And was not merry any more that day 
"Alas." said I, "how many times ha\-e I ^'^ 
Caught at some gauzy pleasure flitting by. 
And thought" — but at this point we reached 

the spot 
Where all that hornet's family lived, and I for- 



Just what I thought, and what I sought to say, 
In one wild, dog-like rush to get away. 




112 



..^'s?j^' 






-^^~^- ■ - -.?' 



I 



Orphan Born 

T AM a lone, unfathered chick, 
■^ Of artificial hatching 
A pilgrim in a desert wild, 
By happier, mothered chicks reviled, 
From all relationships exiled, 
To do my own lone scratching. 
113 



Orphan Born 

Fair Science smiled upon my birth 
One raw and gusty morning; 

But ah, the sounds of barn-yard mirth 

To lonely me have little worth ; 

Alone am I in all the earth — 
An orphan without horning. 



Seek I my mother? I would find 

A heartless personator ; 
A thing brass-feathered, man designs 
W^ith steam-pipe arteries intermined. 
And pulseless cotton batting lined — 

A patent incubator. 



It wearies me to think, you see — 

Death would be better, rather — 
Should downy chicks be hatched of me 
By Fate's most pitiless decree, 
My p'ping pullets still would be 
With never a grandfather. 



14 




Orphan Born 

And when to earth I bid adieu 

To seek a planet greater, 
I will not do as others do, 
Who fly to join the ancestral crew 
For I will just be gathered to 
My Incubator. 



V 



^# 



4 1 r 
tJ }■ 



H. 



tn".A/i',;;"i» 




115 




A Cataracket 

I LOVE. thee, cat; I love thy pleasant ways; 
I love to see thee dozing round the house ; 
I love, through all these dreamy summer days, 
To watch thee circumvent the bashful mouse. 
I love to hear thy calm, contented purr, 
And stroke th\- coat — so near, and yet so fur. 
ii6 




A Cataracket 



But I love not, when starry night is come, 
To hear thee, cat, with velvet-padded hoof, 

Rapid as taps upon a muffled drum, 

Or summer rain drops pattering on the roof. 

For, when thy claws slip from their velvet jacket, 

Thou art a wild Niagara-cat; a cat a racket. 

Grimalkin ! When the radiant moonlight falls : 
In silver splendor on the haunted shed, 

Oft must I listen to thy plaintive wauls 

That drive sweet sleep from my distracted bed . 

It wakes mine ire to hear thy long-drawn shout — 

"Maria! Oh, Maria! Comin' out?" 







Why dost thou rage, vain cat, when sable night 
With "dewy freshness fills the silent air"? 

Why dost thou climb the roof to yell and fight. 
And rip, and spit, and snort, and claw and 
swear? 

Dost thou not blush, oh cat, when rosy dawn 

Sees half thy fur clawed out, and one eye gone? 



117 



A Cataracket 

Go, gentle cat; go from my lap and prowl 
Upon the dizzy woodshed's beetling height 

On lofty dormer window sit and howl 

And everything that weareth cat-fur, fight; 

And I will love thee none the less, for that, 

Because I would not have thee less a cat. 



Yet hear I When midnight pauses in the sky, 
I will arise from sleepless couch of mine. 

And guided by thine animated cry, 

And by thine eyes so brilliantly that shine — 

I will take down my trusty culverin, 

And with six pounds of buckshot fill thy skin. 







«.^^ 




ii8 










Lines to a Mule 

THE smile of spring is blessing all the hills, 
The robin's note sounds from the shad- 
owed vale ; 
The blue bird's matin all the morning fills, 

The brown leaves rustle in the greening trail ; 
While thy insistent song with gladsome ring 
Whoops o'er the fields, a live, reboant thing. 
119 






Lines to a ^NIulc 

Full well I know th>- carol ; man\- a da\- 

I've waked at dawn to hear thee cr\- for feed. 

And. startled b\' thy sudden, clamorous bra}'. 
Have execrated all thy patient breed : 

And I have wept to see thy restless hoof 

Lift a man through the raftered stable roof. 




^ JjVet art thou kind. I never knew thee. mule. 

Kick man or Indian whom thou couldst not 
reach ; 
And thou hast learned in life's hard, friendless 
school 
Ahvay to practice better than }-ou preach ; 
For while, with drooping lids }*ou seem to sleep ^ 
Still do vour heels their tireless vigils keep. 





1 20 



a 



iS 



Bucolics 



"As 1 read 
I hear the crowing cock, I hear the note 
Of lark and linnet, and from every page 
Rise odors of ploughed field or flowery mead." 

Longfellow. 



121 









ly 



I 



r fi 




*9f7 < >5.^ 



The Pierian Spring 



DEAR, vernal flowers, they bloom again 
Like echoes of old spring days gone, 
And mossy hillside, shadowy glen 

Break out in beauty like the dawn. 
The plumy fern, the leaf and bud 

Bend 'neath the kisses of the breeze 
And "Spanish Mixture for the Blood" 
Smiles from the fences, rocks and trees. 
123 






The Pierian Spring 

Balm-breathing Spring ! what tender hope 
Exhales from the awakening soil. 

How "Bolus' Anti-Bilious Dope" 
And "Doctor Gastric's Blizzard Oil" 

Bid fainting nature wake and smile, 
For all her beauties fill us less 

With thoughts of violets than with vile 
"Root Cures" for "Chronic Biliousness." 




If to the wooded nook we stray 

Where every swelling germ is huge 
With life, each gray-browed rock will say 
"Use Philogaster's Vermifuge." 
If from these s}dvan bowers we fly, 

We fly, alas, to other ills; 
The farm-yard gates and barn-doors cry 
"Take Ginsengrooter's Liver Pills." 



Each blue-eyed violet hides a "Pill,' 
There's scent of "Rhubarb" in the air; 

'Rheumatic Plasters" crown the hill 
And "Bitters" blossom everywhere; 



124 



(Z.,...^ 





yiyybnW 


(j/N S£N<xR 00 re R"S 


v\ti/y 


L-IVER P/Ul^S 


K ) [1 





The Pierian Spring 

With "Ague Cures" the eye is seared. 

The air is thick — or thin, I meant — 
For Nature's face and clothes are smeared 

With "Universal Liniment." 



'^10 




125 




March 

COME, Phyllis, the reign of the winter is 
past, 
"Tis time for the earth to awaken; 
The sheep are all frozen in Spring's early blast 
And the shepherd with ague is shaken. 



The ice on the river is eight inches thick, 

But the time of the Winter is over ; 
We can stroll to the stack-yard and nose round 
the rick 
For the perfume of last summer's clover. 
126 




March 

Though the groundhog and crocus creep into 
their holes 

It's Spring, and the almanac shows it; 
Though a polar wave over the continent rolls 

It's Spring ! And we don't care who knows it ! 




127 



\\f'f 

w 





I The Seedsman 



HOW doth the bus}- nurser}-man 
Improve each shining hour ; 
And peddle cions, sprouts and seeds 
Of every shrub and flower. 



How busily he wags his chin, 
How neat he spreads his store. 

And sells us things that never grew 
And won't grow an}' more. 
128 . 




The Seedsman 

^ho showed the Httle man the way 

To sell the women seed? 
Who taught him how to blow and lie 

And coax and beg and plead? 

He taught himself, the nurseryman ; 

And when his day is done 
We'll plant him where the lank rag weeds 

Will flutter in the sun. 

But oh, although we plant him deep 

Beneath the buttercup, 
He's so much like the seed he sells, 

He never will come up. 




129 




In Time of Peace 



•a«^ 



THE pipe of the quail in the stubblefield 
The scent of the new-mown hay ; 
And all day long the shout and the song 
Of the reapers so far away. 



The rasping racket amid the grain, 
- The clack of the reaping machine, 
And ever again the howl of pain 




'•5^ > 



h' 



Comes over the meadow green. 
130 



([1 

fy ' 



In Time of Peace 

Oh, sweet is the field where the meadow lark flits 

And sings, as it soars and dives, 
Where the farm-hand sits and yells as he gits 

His fingers among the knives. 

No longer we hear on the hill-slopes near 

The scythe-stone's clinkety-clink, 
But the mowing machine cuts his leg off, I ween. 

Or ever the man can think. 

With fears and with tears the good wife hears 

The goodman say "Good-bye," 
To return in sooth with a horse-rake tooth 

A foot and a half in his eye. 



When the threshers come in with halloo and din, 
How tempered with sorrow the hour, 

As they linger to scan what is left of the man 
Mixed up with the eight-horse power. 




In Time of Peace 

Oh, listen and weep ! f'rom over the hills 

What voice for the doctor begs? 
'Tis the plough-boy who fell, and shocking to 
tell. 

The steam-plough ran over his legs. 



Thus, all day long with rollicking song 

They laugh at these dread alarms, 
Though the peaceful field a war-harvest yield 



Of fingers, and legs, and arms. 



M, i/ 




ENVOI. 



Then breathe a prayer for a poor old granger 
Whose mangled limbs have borne him to the 
/ fence. 

Who braves, with royal courage, untold danger 
And runs his farm with modern implements. 



132 




May Day 



COME, Pepita, Phyllis, Griselda, Jeannette, 
Evangeline, Heloise, Fifine, Susette, 
Rebecca, Nan, Marguerite, Clara, Babette — 

Or whatever your name is ; 
Come, get on your mackintosh, poncho, umbrell, 
Clogs, overshoes, pattens, "gums," mufflers 

as well. 
And hey ! for the green woods ! I may as well 
tell— 

A-Maying the game is. 

XC 133 




May Day 



We'll twine our May garlands beneath the green 

tree, 
We'll make the swamp ring with our innocent 

glee, 
We'll wade round our May-pole, light-hearted 

and free, 

Where naught but delight is ! 
Then homeward we'll dance, when the twilight 

is come. 
With diphtheria, croup, and pneumonia dumb, 
With phthisis, lumbago and rheumatiz-zum 
And peritonitis. 





Rime of the Ancient Miller 



IT is an Ancient Miller, 
And he stoppeth two or three ; 
' 'By thy mild blue eye and thy floury coat 

Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? 
The Christmas turkey fast doth brown, 

The revels soon begin ; ' ' 
*T have a note falls due in town 

And I must lift it in ; " 
"And I am fain to catch a train, 
So I must run like sin." 
135 



The Ancient Mil- 
ler meeteth three 
men in a great hur- 
ry, and stoppeth 
them to take a 
vote. 



## 



i 



Rime of the Ancient Miller 



He shooteth off his He holds them with his meal>- hand 

little joke, at which . , . , 111 

A grinding face hath he — 
"I wist thou wilt list unto my grist, 
When I have tolled it thee." 



his audience shed 
* 'tears, idle tears. 



He chuckled hoarsely at his jest, 

And sadly out of tram, 
Each halted guest, with pain suppressed 

An overf ailing dam. 



The audience keep- 
eth up a lively 
thinkin'. 



His glittering cock-eye held them fast, 

Whenas his tale he spake ; 
''He's out of balance, first and last." 

Quoth they, "just hear him grate." 



But the A. M. let- 
teth himself go 
Gallagher. 




''I am an Ancient Miller Man, 

And every hundred years 
My bedstone cold I leave to hold 

Converse with mortal ears. 
The smell is sweet of growing wheat, 

When dimpling fields I see; 
And the lark's song the hills along 

Is psalm of praise to me ; 

136 



Rime of the Ancient Miller 



The sound of the 
jolly thresher is 
never muffled. 



The swaying reapers bend and sing 

Amid the golden grain ; 
I hear their songs who toil in throngs 

Around the harvest wain ; 
The quail's low whistle softly calls 

Above the stubbled plain ; 
With royal nod the golden rod 

Approves the sumac's stain; 
I hear once more on puncheon floor 

The hard flail's muflled sound, 
The mirthful roar that tells once more 

The threshers are around ; 
The fl}'ing chaff and lighter laugh 

Go drifting down the wind ; 
But golden wheat and love-words sweet — Come off! 

The best is left behind. 
Down the long slope, sunlit with hope. 

The croaking wain draws near, 
And the clacking mill and the singing rill whoa, y 

Are the music sweet I hear. 



137 



He droppeth into a 
reminiscent strain, 
which is great medi- 
cine for a man who 
enjoyeth the sound 
of his own voice. 

Bully for the quail ! 





Rime of the Ancient Miller 



He getteth his sec- "Ovcr the low half-door I see 

ond wind, and— -n ' i U^ 1 

The miller s daughter lean ; 
In sun and shade the sweetest maid 
By mortal vision seen. 
Describeth a truly The good, gray miller who bends to kiss 

good man with no 

flies on him. The maid as he goes b\% 

With honor's trace on his manly face, 
And honesty in his eye, 



"Who doth proudly wear his silver hair, 
;;Yi,l'llllA crown of integritee — 




^ That all may say, who pass his w^ay, 
A man of men is he' — 



-' ^10^ c Is as like to the man }'our eyes now scan 
As a man to himself can be." 
Xo encore. ^j-j(^ ^\^q miller bowcd to the silent crowd— 

"Did you say rats?" quoth he. 



The A. M. cusseth 
and eke he swear- 
erh. 




"Odds boddikins ! ' Y gum I Gogswouns ! 

Fore gad! Ah, well-a-day ! 
Marry come up ! I'fackins ! Zounds! 

Gadzooks ! Alack-a-day ! 

138 



Rime of the Ancient Miller 



"The bolted flour, like snow-cloud flake, He teiieth how his 

mother used to could 

Fell down as soft and fair ; bake bread (Ting 

The wheaten cake the maids did bake '"^ 

Was lighter than the air ; 
And the new-made bread, the good man 

said, 
Was soothing as a prayer. 




"From Boston town of great renown. 

And wondrous bookerie, 
A maid mature, of aspect dure. 

Went teaching cookerie. 



The cooking school 
woman breaks out. 



"Down dropped the pan, the sifter And all the women 

J , leave the reserva- 

<^l'OPPed ; tion, and 

Down fell the kneading trough; 
The broom down dropt, all work was stopt. 
And all the women off. 



"From house about, with laugh and shout, Take the war path, 

while the braves 

They cooked from morn to night, stay at home 

While men stood hungrily without. 
And could not get a bite. 
139 




CM' , « V 









I ' ' 



Rime of the Ancient Miller 



And chew the cud "Aloiie, alonc, all, all alone, 

of bitter memories ^^ , • i 

and prospect for To hunger gaunt consigned, 



grub. 



The men made moan and stayed at home, 
And ate what they could find. 



But hope deferred " They breakfasted upon a sigh, 

maketh them tired. . , . ^ ^ r r i 

And gnawed at crusts of bread, 
Seiah! ^^i^^ Whiles in the kneading trough so dry 
tir yi Salt-rising tears the}' shed. 



When from the school the women came- 
Oh, horrible to tell ! 



When the women 
come marching 
home again, they 

have learned to |^g ^^.j^q would cat their proffered treat 



Bade health and joy farewell ! 



Put the in-curves "The good, wliitc flour the miller made- 

on the French twist, -r- . r i r i i 

and to make Fit food for gods and men — 

Ambrosial bran — no human man 
Would ever bolt again. 



140 



<"r::ri''. 



Rime of the Ancient Miller 

"The biscuit which his sister cooks, 

Along with other things, 
The schoolboy packs in with his books 

And slings them from his slings. 




Hard finish biscuit, 
durable and usefnl, 



"Bride cake, besides, wrought b}' the 
brides. 

Half tanned and wire-sewed — 
The supervisor oft provides 

For mending of the road. 



Likewise the fa- 
mous waterproof", 
elastic, hand-made 
angel cake, that 




"Oh, friend of mine, that was a time 

That tried the soles of men. 
Their swollen throats and stomachs' coats 

Were tried by leather, then. 



Beats the Dutch, 
and everybody 
knows whom the 
Dutch beat. 



"Oh, sweeter far in those dark days, 

To quiet hunger's wants. 
It was to take my reckless ways 

To Chinese restaurants. 



In his misery he 
joineth himself un- 
to the pagan hea- 
then: and 



V 




141 




Can not understand 
what the heathen 
have to rage about. 



Rime of the Ancient Miller 

"Oh, sweeter far to eat a rat 
By some more Christian name, 

Than swallow lead disguised as bread, 
And perish just the same. 



He exonerateth the 
honest miller but 
excommunicateth 
the "wimmin." 



'Tn vain the honest miller grinds 

The finest kind of flour, 
If wives and daughters have combined 

To bake it sad and sour. 



He passeth from 
narrative to sermon 
and so 



"He loveth best — you know the rest- 
Whose wife, so fond and true. 

Goes clear up head by baking bread 
As his mother used to do. 



Reacheth ''Final- "He Hveth best, whose wife cooks best, 

ly" and the moral. 

All things, both great and small; 
For the man who eateth them with zest 
Loves cook, and grub, and all." 




142 



Rime of the Ancient Miller 



The Miller Man, he checks a sigh, 

He swalloweth a moan ; 
He clasps his hand upon his belt, 

And, with a muffled groan. 
He fadeth quite from out their sight 

And they are left alone. 



The Ancient Miller 
retireth to his cold 
bedstone to conceal 
his emotion, and 
the audience 



The dinner's cold, the train hath gone, 

The note hath cooked his goose ; 
With one acclaim the guests exclaim — 
"That fellow's bush is loose." 



Being left, vote the 
lecturer a little off. 




143 



Tempered Levity 



"Joking decides great things 
Stronglier and better oft than earnest can." 



Horace. 



145 






Old Wine in New Bottles 



PROM the Book of Judges as I read — 
^ "Make me a sling," wee Robbie said, 
"Like those you were reading about in there, 
That hit the mark to the breadth of a hair. 



"And make another for Richard, too, 
And we'll sling as the Benjamites used to do; 
And make another that Baby can twirl — 
A little one, mind — she's only a girl." 
147 




Old Wine in New Bottles 



Q 



Q 





So I made them slings like unto those ^ 

Which Benjamin used against his foes ; ^^ 

"May the songs of victor}' tune your breath 
Like the slingers who smote Kir-haraseth I ' ' 

I smiled as I heard the exultant cry 

Of the singing sHngers marching b}' ; 

I smiled in time, — oh, fooHsh man! — 

For I smiled no more when the light began. 

The pebbles crashed through the window pane, 
They rattled down on the roof like rain ; 
They pelted poor Sport clear out of the play, 
And battered the Rector}-, over the way. 

> 

The air was thick with the flying stones, 
And vocal with shouts, and wails and groans; 
For the people who looked and the people who 

ran 
Were peppered alike by the infantr}' clan. 



Old Wine in New Bottles 



Richard and Robert, the two mighty men, 
Were slinging six ways for Sunday ; but then 
Baby was weeping — the sweet little maid — 
For she slung-shot herself in the shoulder-blade 




Then I knevv that no right-handed person can 

bring 
Old Benjamin's left-handed skill to a sling; 
For the left-handed aim of a right-handed man 
Distracts a projectile as nothing else can. 



And the world suffers much, in a similar way, 
From well-meaning men in their serious play; 
Naught scatters dismay through his own camp 

and clan 
Like the left-handed sling of a right-handed 

man. 



m 




149 



^m 




Sisyphus 



J 



OY of the Spring time ! How the sun 
Smiled on the hills of Burlington. 



The breath of May! And the day was fair, 
The bright motes danced in the balmy air. 

The sunlight gleamed where the restless breeze 
Kissed the fragrant blooms on the apple trees. 

His beardless cheek with a smile was spanned 
As he stood with a carriage-whip in his hand. 











j^\ f Sisyphus 

^-rr J 

Lightly he laughed as he doffed his coat 
And the echoing folds of the carpet smote. 

^^ She smiled as she leaned on her busy mop, 
And said she would tell him when to stop. 

So he larruped away till the dinner bell 
Gave him a little breathing spell. 

But he sighed when the tard}' clock struck one, 
And she said that his carpet was most half done. 

Yet he lovingly put in his liveliest licks. 
And whipped like mad until half-past six. 

When she said, in a dubious kind of wa)', 
That she "guessed he could finish that side next 
day." 

Then all that dav, and the next day, too, xrxnx 
The fuzz from the dustless carpet flew. (^ / A 

And she'd give it a look at eventide, ^^^^ f 

And say, "Now whip on the other side." 



151 




Sisyphus 

So the new days came as the old da)-s went. 
And the landlord came for his regular rent. 

While the neighbors laughed at the whup-zip- 

boom I 
And his face grew shadowed with clouds of 

gloom. 

Till at last, one dreary winter day, 
Spurning his life-work, he fled away. 

Over the fence and down the street, 
Out into the Yon with footsteps fleet. 

And never again did the morning sun 
Smile on him beating his carpet drum. 

Though sometimes a neighbor would say with a 

yawn — 
"Where has the carpet martyr gone?" 



Years t^vice twenty had come and passed 
And the carpet mouldered in sun and blast 




It2 



Sisyphus 



For never yet since that May grown old 
Had hand been laid on its edge or fold. 

Over the fence a gray-haired man, 
Cautiously dim, clum, clem, dome, clam; 

He found him a switch in the old woodpile 
And he gathered it up with a sad, grim smile. 

A flush passed over his face forlorn, 

As he gazed at the carpet, stained and torn. 

Then he struck it a most resounding thwack. 
Till the startled air gave its echoes back. 

Out of the window a white face leaned, 
While a palsied hand the dim eyes screened. 

At once she knew him — she gasped — she 

sighed — 
"A little more on the under side!" 

Right down on the ground his stick he throwed, 
He shivered, and muttered — "Well, I am 
blowed!" 

Then he turned him away with a heart full sore, (;-' 
And he never was seen, not none, no more. 
153 




^> 



/^ 



t- 



^^ 




Sic Transit 



^^/^^H, listen to the water-wheel through all 
^ ^ the live-long day' — 

Your salar\- for work will stop when }-ou begin 
to play ; 
^-^^-^ / '^^^ fellow at the ladder's top — to him the hon- 



I" \ 




ors go, 
The beginner at the bottom, nobody cares to 
know ; 



154 




Sic Transit 



No good is any ''Has Been," in countn- or in 
town — 

Nobody cares how high you've been, if you 
have tumbled down. 

If you have been the President, and can't be 
any more, 

You may run a farm, or teach a school, or keep 
a country store ; 

No one will ask about you ; you never will be 
missed — 

The mill will only grind for you while you sup- 
ply the grist. 



^^^^V 




|ilwi']|m 



155 




^r 




'■:<i".' ^x *fe? y. 




Bravest of the Brave 

I SEE no more the gray an' blue 
'At I seed in the war I fit into; 
But I read in the papers now an" then. 
They're iitin' it still weth the cold steel pen 



I read the pieces, an' often think 
In all this eefusion of gallant ink, 
How ever' one of 'em jest leaves out 
% The name of the bravest man "at fout. 

156 




Bravest of the Brave 

There's fellers a writin' about the war 
'At nobody ever knowed before; 
An' never a word, }'0u understand, 
'Bout Corp'l Alexander Rand. 

In ever' paper, west an' east, 
Them writes the most 'at fit the least; 
But they was cheers an' carnage when 
Brave Corp'l Rand led on his men. 

When Grant was in that awful mess 

A fightin' in the wilderness, 

Says Meade, "Who bears the batde's heft?" 

Says Grant, "It's Rand, 'at holds the left." 

When Rebeldom was out o' j'int, 
An' Lincoln come from City P'int, 
"Well, well!" says he, weth honest joy, 
"There's Corp'l Rand, of Eelinoy ! " 



157 




Bravest of the Brave 

An' yit I ain't, ner }-ou ain't seen 

His pictur in a magazine; 

The bravest man 'at ever drored 

In Freedom's cause a soldier's sword 

The keenest, sHckest, bravest man 
To plan — er execute a plan ; 
Ef long as time his fame don't stand, 
My name ain't Alexander Rand I 




1^8 




The Odd I See 



WHAT time Ulysses, In the frosty morn, 
Prepares to face the bleak November 
storm. 
His well-saved winter garmenture he seeks 
And in each closet's dark recess he peeks. 
"Eheu," cries he, "my ulster is not here, 
Nor in their place my heavy boots appear ; 
My sealskin cap, when I would put it on. 
From its accustomed peg is surely gone. 
I see no scarf ; by Venus and her loves ! 
Some son of Mercury hath swiped my gloves ! 
159 




The Odd I See 

Mehercule ! who's got my chest-protector? 

I'm cleaned out b}' some vile old-clothes col- 
lector I ' ' 

With that he ripped, and roared, and fumed and 
' 'swar, " 

While all his household looked on from afar. 




To him at length, with grieving, downcast eyes, 
Faithful Penelope, distracted, cries: 
"Uh'sses, peace I Such actions more become 
A Trojan steeped in old New England rum. 
Wh}' wag th}' tongue in neither rhyme nor 

reason , 
For things that are so useless out of season? 
Why should a storm-coat cumber up the wall 
When August sun-rays fiercely on us fall? 
Wh}' should th}' winter boots impede our wa}' 
When summer sun-strokes hold their fatal sway? 
Go to ; when April's da}'s were growing long 
A plaster-paris peddler came along ; 
Quick for his wares I changed each winter robe, 
^j^T^And sent him burdened down the dusty road. 



iniicil^v 



60 



E3MEmm 



The Odd I See 

Methinks, forsooth, thy senseless rant '11 cease, 
When thou behold'st our plastered mantel- 
piece." 



He views the mantel; on his knotted face, 
Frowns scatter smiles, and smiles the dark frowns 

chase. 
He pauses for a space, then sits him down 
And makes him ready for a trip down town. 
First pulls, goloshal screens from slush and sleet, 
Two plaster-paris kittens on his feet. 
Around his neck, with cotton thread he ties 
A snow-white angel with the bluest eyes ; 
Napoleon, with his crossed arms firmly pressed, 
He binds upon his cough-affected chest; 
Two jet black dogs with gilded collar bands 
He draws for gauntlets on his sinewy hands ; 
Last, a Fan-legged, rampant billy goat 
Swings o'er his shoulders for an overcoat. 
Loud laugh the gods, as down the street he 

strides, 
And e'en Penelope his style derides. 
i6i 





The Putty Man 



Y 



OU may reason with a fool till his muddled 
brain grows clear, 
You may teach an idiot to think if \-ou will per- 
severe ; 
But all the wisdom, all the patience, ever learned 

or planned 
Can't teach a lesson to the man who will not 
understand. 

162 





The Putty Man 

You can teach a pig the alphabet; I reckon, if 

you try, 
A parrot may be taught to read ; a man may 

learn to fly; 
It's possible that men may learn to twist a rope 

of sand, 
But the angels couldn't teach the man who will 

not understand. 

Some patient men have trained the restless winds 

to tow our ships ; 
The deaf man hears you talking by the motion 

of your lips ; 
And men have broken flees to harness — worked 

them four in hand — 
But omniscience can not train the man who will 

not understand. 



The spiders teach us how to put up screens 

against the flies, 
And blind men teach their teachers how to see 

without their eyes ; 

163 




The Putty Man 



Each Hving thing in all the world has answered 

some demand 
Except the man who doesn't want to learn to 

understand. 




The granite rock will shatter at the one and hun- 
dredth blow; 

The April sun will smile away the mountain drift 
of snow ; 

The lightning's bolt will split in t\vain the tough- 
est oak on land, 

But nothing shakes the putty man who will not 
understand. 

From cold and sullen flint the steel can waken 

sparks of fire, 
Bright Freedom's torch the slave's dumb soul 

with courage will inspire ; 
The miser throws away his gold at Duty's stern 

command, 
But nothing thrills the man of dough, who will 

not understand. 

164 



The Putty Man 

He's there, just where he's always been, and 

there he's going to stay 
Through time and half eternity, forever and a 

day; 
He will not throb, nor quiver, nor thrill, nor 

stand, nor fall. 
Nor run, nor fly, nor laugh, nor cry; he's putty, 

that is all. 



I reckon when at last old Time has run his long, 
long race, 

And the Universe goes crashing off in endless, 
starless space — 

There's just one thing that won't be in the trans- 
formation grand — 

The putty man — he'll see it all, but will not un- 
derstand. 



-^ 





On the Coast of Man 



W'l 



Y little bo\-, with voice and eyes 

ures me with boyish plea and boast 



To where the snow clad hills arise 
And reckless urchins swiftly coast. 



Why not? x-\gain I am a boy — 
I am his brother, not his sire; 

His steel shod sled our common toy, 
His callow pleasures my desire. 
1 66 



<c~^ 




On the Coast of Man 

Down glacial slopes, with merry cheers, 
We sweep, as swallows skim the shore; 

I throw away full thirty years 
And I am ten again; no more. 

My youthful pride comes back to me ; 

My boyhood's skill and courage, too; 
I bid the Prince stand back and see 

The way his father used to do. 

Alone I climb the highest hill ; 

I poise the sled upon its brow ; 
In wonder lost the Prince stands still. 

And starts, to hear my warning "Now!' 

Swifter than winged thought I fly, 

But when my flight is half-way through, 

A "thank-you-marm" lifts me on high 
Into the air a mile or two. 

And down that dizzy, reeling track 
Like twenty men and sleds I go ; 

While up my legs and down by back 
Packs fifteen thousand pounds of snow. 

167 




On the Coast of Man 

I crawl out to the light again 

And feebly share the Prince's fun; 

While something tells my whirling brain 
That I am reall\' fort}^-one. 

And so I say, "so late 'tis grown 
That I must hurry home to tea ; ' ' 

While Robbie, coasting doAvn alone, 

Shouts " 'Fraid cat I 'fraid cat!" after me. 




i6S 










'f? 



.^ 



y 



•t\ 



The Private's Glory 



SWEET little Major, he mounts my knee, 
And the dancing blue eyes look at me ; 
"Please tell me, Popsie, just once more, 
What did you do when you went to war?" 



And then I tell of the autumn day 
When the Forty-seventh marched away; 
How Miles at Corinth field went down. 
And Cromwell fell at Jackson town. 
i6q 






The Private's Glory 

" ^'/, ..,m 

"But how many rebels, tell me true, '^ ' \\\\ ^^ 
Did you kill then, and the whole war through?" |l |. 
And I tell him how, with martial zest, \ 

Joe Reed blew up a limber chest. 

But the Major sticks to his question still — 

"How many rebels did you kill?"' 

So I tell him how, near set of sun, 

The charge was made and the battle won. 

And how, the day McClure was shot, 
And Vicksburg's fight was fierce and hot, 
Brave Sam Law took C company in 
Through flame and smoke and batteries' din. 

How over our heads the battle broke 
With hurtling shell and saber stroke — 
But he wanted to know, the little elf, 
"How many men did you kill }Ourself?" 

"Say, tell me, Popsie, sa\' }'ou will — 
How many rebels did you kill?" 
So I tell him the truth, as near as may be. — 
"As many of them as they did of me." 
170 







d&:' 




Don't Fret 



T ONCE knew a woman and her face would be 
"■■ a-bloomin' 

Till yet; 
But whate'er the fates would do, man, in a way 
most inhuman 

She'd fret. 
If her husband stayed away longer than a half 

a day, 
No matter what the messenger he sent to her 

might say, 
If her children disappeared a minute, romping 
at their play- 
She 'd fret. 



171 



,.Wl|i 



Irti 



Don't Fret 



If a storm came up and thundered, then she 
worried and she wondered — 
You bet I 
And if only once you blundered she would put 
it down a hundred 

And fret. 
She fretted and she stewed o'er the microbes in 

her food, 
O'er the innocent bacillus in her system she 

would brood, 
She would magnify her troubles to their great- 
est magnitude — 

And fret. 

Every day without a-trying she would come so 
near a-dying 

She"d fret; 
But she'd come to life a-cr\-ing, and go on with 
her sighing 

And fret. 
Till along one day came Death, and he took 

*away her breath — 
f, I Having nothing left to fret with was the reason 
yTO", \, for her death. 

f So they nailed her in her cofBn. and the stone 
/iy HI , ': ^ y^ above her saith. 

Wimm "Don't fret." 

iff! .--'n m 




James Whitcomb Riley 



(WETHOUT ARY APOLOGY) 

I GOT to thinkin' of him — as sometimes a fel- 
ler will — 
An' the night he give a lecture to the folks in 

Shelbyville, 
An' we set up 'til daylight, as them lecterers 

sometimes do — 
A-talkin' of a hundred things that mightn't 
int'rest you ; 

173 




James Whitcomb Rile}^ 



,v>- ^ fii-^ J- iiiind the things he rattled off, that night, in 
bo}'ish glee, 
A Recitations he recited to an audience of me ; 
How I laughed ontil the landlord come an' ast 

us to be still — 
So I got to thinkin' of him, an' that night at 
Shelbyville. 



Then he'd kindo' quit his nonsense, an' we'd 

settle down a spell, 
Tell Jim 'ud turn upon me an' begin agin — 

"D'ev tell 
'Bout the time I went to Franklin fer the Baptist 

college folks?" 
An' I'd stretch m}' mouth acrost my face all 

ready fer the jokes ; 
But he'd branch off in a story 'bout the "Merry 

Workers" band, 
Thet, onless you knowed the "Workers," you 

c'd hardly understand; 



174 



James Whitcomb Riley 

I c'd hear myself a swallerin', the room 'ud 

seem so still — 
So I got to thinkin' of him, an' that night at 

Shelby ville. 



.-; ll I got to thinkin' of him — like 'twas jest a year 

Pj'^ ago- 

Ifjl Fer time, that flies so fast in dreams, in alma- 
--^■^a4 X nacs is slow ; 



^r 



and 



\/\)% He was workin' like a beaver, lectur'n here 
'f/n'\^ \ lectur'n' there, 

1>'((IW An' a writin' on the railroad cars, in taverns — 
ever 'where — 
Printin' poems in the papers, speakin' pieces at 

the fairs — 
An' him an' me a travelin' now an' then around 

in pairs ; 
An' he seemed to think 'at he was no account 

at all — but still 
I got to thinkin' of him, an' that night at Shel- 
by ville. 



175 



James Whitcomb Rilev 



W^l^;\-^^I got to thinkin' of him an' the happy "Days 
V ^^ Gone By," 

" ^ Tell the sweet "Old Fashioned Roses" seemed 
^^^ to bloom agin — an' die; 

I hear him talk agin about "My Bride that Is to 

Be," 
When he come to "Griggsby Station" jest to 

have a night with me ; 
I can see him settin' down agin to give the 

"Prince" a rock, 
When "The Frost was on the Pumpkin and the 

Fodder in the Shock;" 
An' I hear a laughin' voice I loved, with music 

in its trill — 
So I got to thinkin' of him an' that night at 
Shelby ville. 




An* I set an' wonder, sometimes, if I know jest 
what it means, 

When I see 'em print his poetry in all the mag- 
azines ; 



176 



James Whitcomb Riley 

An' I see him on the platform with the James 

and Howells set, 
An' hear the people sayin' "He's the best one 

of 'em yet! " 
An' I keep a winkin' back the tears that make 

my fool eyes shine, 
Fer I couldn't feel no prouder ef he'd ben a 

boy of mine ; 
Fer he's jest the same old Riley, an' he'll be 

the same Jim still — 
'At he was the night 'at him an' me set up at 

Shelbyville ! 




^77 




WHAT time the winter sun is low, 
When floods are high and trains are slow, 
With joy each glad committee-man 
The lecturer's half-gfuessed features scan. 



For joy sets all their hearts a-flame ; 
They're glad he's come; he's glad he came; 
It makes a w^aiting audience glum 
To be informed — ''He didn't come." 



<2_2 1/-8 




Finis 

And when, the dreary lecture o'er, 
They settle down for chat once more. 
First from their questioning lips he'll hear — 
"And now, where do you go from here?" 

So much depends on that, you know, 
Whether to club or bed he'll go; 
Their plans depend on — so they say — 
How far his next place is away. 

The new born friendships, pleasant chat, 

Song, jest and story, and all that 

Are long or short, as may appear 

His answer — "Where d'ye go from here?" 

"Where do you go from here, good friend? 
When does our meeting have an end? 
Hail and farewell ! Your love is dear — 
But say, Where do you go from here?" 

"Say, when the next place greets you fair, 
Will you hear our voices calling there? 
Will you think of us, be it far or near, 
In the place you're going to from here?" 
179 





Finis 

And so. some day, when the sun is low. 
And the trains of Time, as the schedules go, 
Are slowing up to the station gate, 
And the clock hands point to the hour of Fate 

When the scents of the evening damps arise 
And the stars come out in the tranquil skies, 
When the engine bell rings soft and slow 
And the trainmen silentlv come and q-q ; 



When the jest and laughter that lived with him 
Are hushed in the station lights so dim, 
They will bend to whisper — "The end is near — 
I wonder, where does he go from here?' 





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